Page 14 of The Paris Trip

The door creaked open to reveal a elderly woman. She struck Maeve as being at least ninety years old, her face creased with fine wrinkles, her springing hair snow-white and wonderfully wild, her back stooped as she leant on a silver-topped cane. She was wearing a knee-length, dark-green woollen dress – despite the warmth of the summer night – a heavy silver crucifix glinting about her neck as she shuffled forward, one hand outstretched.

‘Ah, ma petite…’ Her cloudy hazel eyes were nonetheless still keen and intelligent, reminiscent of Leo’s own penetrating gaze. ‘Don’t cry, my little one,’ she told Maeve in French, her voice husky and guttural, like an ex-smoker’s. ‘It’s not serious. You are safe now.’ Her smile showed a row of teeth far too white and too perfect to be real. ‘You are home.’

Home?

Maeve was baffled. Had the old lady mistaken her for somebody else? Or maybe her own powers of translation had reached the natural limit.

Politely, Maeve allowed the woman to take her hand in a surprisingly strong grasp. ‘Bonsoir, merci… Gosh that’s quite a grip you have there,’ she added in English, too exhausted to reach for the right words in a foreign language. It had been one hell of a day, and the universe was apparently not yet finished with her. ‘I’m Maeve.’

‘Maeve,’ the old lady repeated, smiling and nodding as though she already knew this.

To clarify matters, Maeve said slowly and loudly, ‘Leo said I could stay. I’m just here for the night.’

‘Leo, oui, ah oui.’ The old lady’s smile broadened. She really did have an extensive range of unblemished teeth, Maeve thought, smiling back at her. ‘You will help Leo,’ she added with a knowing wink. ‘You will be his Muse.’

‘His, what?’

Now Maeve was sure that her French had deserted her. Because that made no sense at all.

A ‘Muse’ was someone – usually female – who inspired an artist to create and often ‘sat’ for portraits as well. In the nude sometimes, if the Pre-Raphaelites were anything to go by…

As soon as she’d downed her obligatory coffee and croissant tomorrow morning, she’d be out of here and likely never see Château Rémy again. She’d have a job becoming anyone’s Muse under those restricted circumstances. As for stripping off…

The only removal of clothing likely to happen under this roof was when she jumped into a hot bath, a plan which seemed doomed to failure at this rate.

But the old lady was adamant.

‘Yes, his Muse. That Liselle… Ah!’ The explosive sound encapsulated both disbelief and laughing derision. ‘That girl is finished… Done! She was never his Muse. Bah… She thought she was, but we all knew different. Now it is revealed…’ The small dark eyes bored into Maeve. ‘But you, little English…’

‘Me?’

‘Yes… You will bring out his paints again.’

‘His… paints? Yes, if you like.’ Had Leo lost his paints? What on earth was this conversation about?

Her brain was too befuddled to make head nor tail of it. But she smiled back anyway because she didn’t want to be rude.

‘Bienvenue, p’tite!’ The old lady drew her close, warm and perfumed, and kissed her on both cheeks before exclaiming, ‘Maeve! Maeve!’ with a prophetic cry that echoed around the room.

‘Yes, that’s my name. Maeve.’ The old lady wasn’t letting her go, she realised, as she gently attempted to extricate herself. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but if I could just…’

‘Maman, what are you doing here?’ a voice demanded.

Maeve was relieved to see Madame Rémy again, now in a pink cotton dressing gown and slippers, a glass of water in her hand, standing in the doorway.

Rescue had arrived, it seemed.

At first sight of Madame Rémy, the old lady relinquished her grasp on Maeve and hurried away, leaning heavily on her cane. Muttering something in French, she was ushered from the room by Madame Rémy, who apologised profusely to Maeve in English. ‘I’m so sorry. My mother… You must forgive her. She is very elderly and isn’t always aware what she’s doing.’

‘His Muse!’ The old lady threw over her shoulder before disappearing.

‘Go to bed, Maman!’ Tutting, Madame Rémy handed Maeve the glass of water. ‘Here, I forgot to ask Bernadette to make sure you had water. Such a warm evening.’

‘Oh, thank you, yes. But please don’t worry about your mother. It’s very good to see you again. I hope your ankle is better.’

‘Much, thank you.’

‘I’m so glad. And thank you so much for letting me stay tonight.’ The old lady was already tap-tap-tapping along the attic landing with her cane. Maeve peered round the door after her. ‘Your mother’s lovely. And I’m not really sure what I’m doing either, most of the time,’ she added in an undertone. ‘So… I guess that means she must be Leo’s great-grandmother?’

---